Symphony of Tears
by one.long.melody
Summary: What happens when Alicia Foxworth's happiness is suddenly whisked away like leaves from the trees that line the courtyards of Foxworth Hall? Garland/Alicia fluff.
1. Insecurities

I do not own _Garden of Shadows _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

Throughout the course of history, it has been believed that the birth of a child is a joyous and therefore celebrated occasion. There was nothing in my budding relationship with my new son or my marriage to a wonderful man that would doubt such claims. Always had I been the type to look at a cloud and be able to see its silver lining, even on the grayest of days.

But not now. Now, the weeks leading up to this moment had been painted nothing _but _gray. No longer was there a silver lining.

I stripped the silken robe from my body and let the rose pink garment crumple around my ankles. There I stood before the floor-length mirror, absorbing every last flaw my post-pregnancy body had to offer. Flaws that glared back at me like my stepdaughter's cold, gray eyes each time I entered a room. It was easy to ignore such things when you had access to an escape route: Whether it be to room (after all, Foxworth Hall had more than its share of rooms) or in the imagination. But how _could_ I flee when the subject of my distress would follow me, regardless of where I went or how far I ran?

It was such a silly, trivial thing. Truly, the modifications to my body were minor compared to other women who'd born children. I felt foolish for ever believing that everything would return to normal the moment I'd had Christopher. But almost three weekshad past since then, and _still_ I looked four months pregnant. I was so ashamed of this that I'd taken to making love to my husband only in the darkness. A request he'd favored—after all, he never denied me anything—but one that invited thoughts of suspicion. Especially when he'd gone to lovingly stroke and kiss my abdomen, a gesture I'd responded to by gently pushing him away. It had broken my heart to result to such drastic measures, and I worried that I'd left him with the impression that I now knew what everyone else did. That Garland was too old for me, that he looked ridiculous leading such a young woman along by the arm in public. Of course such thoughts had never even crossed my mind, though my actions had most surely stated otherwise. It was so easy to picture the hurt look on his face. And yet, he never gave me any indication that what I'd done had upset him.

I was behind the closed door of the suite Garland and I shared, standing before the floor-length mirror. My breasts were terribly swollen and tender to the touch, but my husband was always so gentle with each and every caress he administered. Nevertheless, it wasn't my breasts that had reduced me to wallowing through the depths of self-pity. It was another part of me—the part of me that had carried our beautiful, golden-haired son for nine months. My abdomen, which was still so puffy even weeks after his birth. Judging from a rational point of view, the change wasn't so noticeable. A small part of me would even go as far as to call it _sort of _cute. Especially when I pivoted sideways, which was the best angle to go with when examining oneself. I just wasn't used to seeing something so out of place on what was an otherwise slender frame.

And Garland—what would _he _think? He hadn't even _seen_ me without clothing on since I'd delivered Christopher. Deep down, I knew it was absurd to think I could ever disappoint my husband. A husband who had been nothing but kind and loving and absolutely _wonderful _long beforehe became my husband. While my heart told me that Garland would never, ever stop loving me for something as trivial as physical change, my mind stated otherwise. The very thought of this fear coming true brought tears to my eyes, and I buried my face in my hands just as I heard the door behind me creak open.

I jumped, for I was naked from the waist up. Oh, why hadn't I thought to lock the door before deciding to disrobe? Quickly, I retrieved my robe from the floor and held it up in front of myself like a shield before spinning around. When I turned, however, I saw that it was only Garland, and the racing fear of my heart slowed to a calm, steady beat. He was standing in the doorway, gazing at me with the same love and devotion in his eyes he'd had the day I accepted his marriage proposal. In one arm he held a bouquet of two-dozen red roses, while in the other he balanced a heart-shaped box of what I presumed were chocolates. Suddenly, I felt all of the fear and uncertainty inside me melt away like those chocolates surely would if kept in a suite as warm as ours. Here I was, standing in the middle of a room in nothing but my panties, makeup smudged from my tears, holding my robe in front of myself, as if I had every reason in the world to be ashamed. But how could I be when my husband was standing there, looking at me in that special, funny, adorable, Garland-like way only he could?

Maybe it was the toll my childish concerns had taken on me, or the relief upon realizing how unlikely it was that any of them would ever come true. Whatever it was, it was the cause of the tears that, at that very moment, burst forth from my eyes like a flood through a barricade. A loud sob ruptured through my throat then, forcing Garland to relinquish his gifts so that he could sprint across the room to my side.

"My darling, what is it?" he demanded. His always unruffled tone transformed into a panic, as his gentle fingers braided through my chestnut locks in a desperate attempt to calm me. "Are you ill?"

I shook my head, my voice too choked by sobs for me to form any sort of comprehensible response.

"Is there something wrong with the baby? Is Christopher—"

_"No!" _I hadn't intended to yell, or give my husband any indication that I was upset with him for suggesting such a thing. I simply wanted to ensure the fact that I would be heard. "No, he's fine."

"Then what is it that has reduced you to such a state of distress?"

I did my best to answer, but when I tried my sobs got in the way and I choked on my words. Garland assured me not to worry, that we would discuss it all in detail later on and that for now I should rest. He swept me into his arms and covered my face in kisses. He told me how happy he was to be home following what he described as 'a long, monotonous day at the offices with Malcolm'. Garland then led me back across the room and helped me into bed.

"I'm going to ask Mrs. Wilson to make you some hot cocoa," he said, once he'd finished tucking the comforter around me. "And afterward I'll come right back."

Sniffling, I extended the hand on whose wrist was attached the gold bracelet he'd given me for my twelfth birthday. He caught my hand before I had reached his, smiling at me and then at the piece of jewelry on my wrist.

"I can't believe you still wear this." Garland's cerulean blue eyes returned to meet my own. "Wouldn't you prefer if I bought you something that's a little more grown-up? After all, this is meant for a little girl—and you're a young woman now, my love."

He was right about that. "I know I am. But I would _never_ think of trading this bracelet for any other. Besides, _you _gave it to me, remember? That, above all else, is what makes it so special, and the whole reason why I wear it every day."

This pleased Garland, for he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. They were now as puffy from my crying as my stomach was from Christopher's birth. I felt my cheeks flush as I imagined for a moment Garland kissing that part of my body. Just like he'd done when I was pregnant. Perhaps he saw in me something that concerned him, for he raised his hands and pressed both palms to my cheeks. Then he took one hand and laid it across my forehead, searching for a fever I assumed. When he felt nothing, he smiled, obviously relieved, and ended his examination by kissing me on the tip of my slightly upturned—and now somewhat pinkish—nose. Afterward, he retrieved the gifts he'd bought me and set them carefully down on the nightstand so that I'd have something to enjoy during his absence. Next, he exited the room—but not without the promise to return shortly.

"Until then, my love," he said, and closed the door softly behind him.


	2. Because I Love You

I do not own _Garden of Shadows _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

Even before Garland had finished saying goodbye I was missing him. As a result, I felt two tears squeeze themselves from my eyes without any effort on my part. What was wrong with me? Why was I suddenly behaving like a child of five? Was I merely being overly self conscious, or had I gone mad? The thought of not knowing the answers to these questions was frightening, and as a result I cried out for Garland. But by now he was surely all the way downstairs, at the other end of the mansion. He couldn't possibly have heard me.

My over-active emotions had exhausted me, and I soon fell into a tranquil yet partial sleep. The kind of sleep a person experiences during a ride in an automobile. I was jolted awake within ten minutes, by the sound of the bedroom door breaching forward. I opened my eyes to see my husband reenter, this time with a steaming mug and two chocolate chip cookies poised together on a saucer.

"How are you feeling?" was the first question he asked me.

"Better." My face felt sticky from all the tears I'd shed, and my throat was soar from the amount of sobbing I'd done. But I was doing better than I was when Garland had first discovered me, standing half naked before the mirror.

He handed me the saucer, while he pushed the other items he'd brought me into another corner of the nightstand to make room. "I hope you don't mind, but I telephoned Dr. Braxten while I was downstairs. He'll be coming by in a few hours to do a psychological examination. He seems to think it's just some sort of fit you were having, but doesn't want to take any chances. And frankly, neither do I."

"Oh, Garland," I protested. "I wish you'd spoken to me before taking it upon yourself to get Dr. Braxten involved in all this. What happened to me earlier doesn't require any psychological examination. That's silly. What I did was just a result of the fatigue I've been feeling lately. You see, even with the nanny you hired, I'm still adjusting to the idea of being a mother. It's going to take time before I'm able to fall completely into a new routine." This was a complete lie, and I was sure Garland could see right through it as one does a newly polished window. In a way I was grateful for him making such a close observation, as it would save me from the agony of the guilt of lying to him. Next to making my husband happy, my only other wish in life was to be the best mother I could be. And he knew it. "Honestly. Sometimes you worry far, _far_ too much."

"It is only because I love you that I worry so," replied Garland stubbornly. I couldn't help but smile at how sweet he looked as his eyebrows knotted together and he frowned. It made his already full lips look even poutier. He appeared to be at least twenty years younger, and his current reaction took off another five years. I wanted to giggle, but forced myself to contain it. That is, until he blushed, and seized from me my last ounce of self control.

I fell back against the pillows, my long hair spilling into my eyes as I thrashed about beneath the tangled sheets. But my childish behavior didn't last long. It came to a premature end the moment I felt the sheets being peeled away from my body like skin from an apple. Quickly I seized the comforter in my fist and sent Garland a desperate look, begging him with my eyes to leave well enough alone. At first he seemed confused, but then his face took on an expression of a child whose parent has just denied them ice-cream. He looked so sad that the tears I thought I'd finished crying returned, and this time with a vengeance. I must admit I expected him to flee, unable to deal with a wife who had done nothing but cry on and off for the better part of the hour. But he stayed exactly where he was, and then did something that only a possessor of his patience would perform.

Taking his hands, Garland ever so gently brushed back the hair that had fallen across my face. Even with my hair and makeup a mess, still he stared at me as if I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His kind smile silenced the self doubt that had been tearing around inside me like a ferocious beast for so many weeks now. Cupping my chin in his thumb and forefinger, he leaned down and kissed me upon the lips with such gentleness that I was overwhelmed. I was trembling so much beneath the blankets, desperate to reveal to him what I'd kept secret for so long, but too terrified to face the possible consequences.

Then I felt Garland's arms around me, his velvet-soft lips moving gently up and down my neck. It was one of the few parts of me that wasn't covered up, and I could feel the rest of my body beginning to throb for his attention. I opened my mouth to tell him to go ahead, to finish what I'd stopped him from doing before, that I had reached the end of making love in a room drowned in darkness.

But there was no need.

Garland had read my thoughts, or so it seemed. Already he had begun to lift away the top of the chest that concealed a long lost treasure waiting to be rediscovered. As he drew closer to his prize, my mind filled with memories of our wedding night. The same feelings that had filled me then came flooding back to me now. With nervousness and excitement surging through me with such inexorable force, my heart raced like a hunter's horse in pursuit of a fox…

I was sure I would faint from the sheer thrill of it all, before Garland had finished tugging down the last of the linens. This was the first time since Christopher's birth that Garland was seeing me in all my naked glory. And just like on our wedding night, my excitement took the form of goosebumps. Again my husband's eyes trailed over me, taking in every little detail of my body, as if I were a painting hanging on the wall of a museum that he never wanted to forget.

Heat plunged into my cheeks like flames engulfing a room, as Garland very carefully began to stroke my breasts. He was such an absent-minded individual and yet, when it came to me, I imagined he gave me more attention than most men gave their women. My breasts were so sore, and his hands were so loving and tender as he massaged them. I felt my discomfort drain away, and soon enough it had faded completely like a shadow in the darkness.

"Oh, Alicia," Garland said, the words coming out almost like a gasp. "Have you any idea just how unspeakably beautiful you look right now?"

When he sat there staring at me like that, administering such affectionate caresses to the most vulnerable part of my body, how could I tell him the truth? The truth behind my hysterical crying outbursts? The truth behind why I had been standing nearly naked before the mirror when he'd entered the room?

Taking up my hand from its place at my side, I shyly lay it across my abdomen to shield it from my husband's view. But my action wasn't quick enough to escape his gaze, and he reached over to pull my hand away.


	3. In the Eye of the Beholder

I do not own _Garden of Shadows _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

I would like to extend my deepest appreciation to GrayRainbows for adding this to your list of favorite stories. I am a huge fan of yours, and knowing that you liked my fic has inspired me to post the remaining two chapters. I hope you and whoever else may read this enjoys them. Again, thank you so much - you've absolutely made my day!

* * *

Willingly I surrendered my efforts to keep hidden from Garland what he'd probably already perceived while escorting me to bed. He had merely been too preoccupied with the idea of me having some sort of fit to care about anything else. And so I let him take my hand in his, and smiled as he kissed my knuckles, and watched the light from the suspended chandelier illuminate his magnificent blue eyes.

"I can always tell when you're hiding something," he said, taking a seat beside me on the bed. "From the time you were five years old, I always knew when you were being less honest than your words let on. Not just with your parents, but with me."

"You know me too well, Garland Foxworth. Better than anyone ever has, I expect."

"Which is why it's so important for us to always be honest with each other. If there's something troubling you, or you have a problem you can't possibly solve on your own, then I want you to come directly to me, and we'll figure out a way to fix it. I may be an old man, but I'm above living out the rest of my years while my young wife suffers."

That was the first time Garland had spoken of his age so openly, or so crassly, and I tilted my head to the side in confusion. He seemed to find my reaction rather cute, because he leaned forward and kissed my nose. Again I felt tears begin to fill my eyes, and as if I thought I might lose him, I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck. He responded by hoisting me into his lap, and I wrapped my legs around his torso before burying my face in his chest. His arms circled around me then, filling me with a love so warm and real that it caused the tears to spill from my eyes.

We didn't speak again for a very long time after that. The only communication to exist between us was in Garland's gentle caresses to my skin, and the whispering kisses he bestowed upon my face, neck, arms and breasts. He avoided the areas below my chest, and I told myself it was because he knew there was something about that part of my body that bothered me.

I sobbed again, more from worry of what he may or may not think about my 'change'. He responded by lovingly kissing away my tears, his placid lips feeling like a warm breeze blowing across my face. I broke the silence the moment I whimpered that I loved him, and of course he returned the words immediately, right before pushing me back onto the pillows to kiss me on the mouth.

"Garland," I asked hoarsely, and swallowed back my tears. "If I show you something, then will you promise not to laugh?"

The question seemed to appall him. "My darling, since when have I _ever _laughed at you? Well, not unless you've done something funny. But if what you have to say is in connection to your current state, then you can be sure I won't—"

"Just promise me you won't laugh. Or tell _anyone. _I'll absolutely _die_ if Olivia or Malcolm—"

"You have my word."

I nodded, realizing that would have to be enough. Garland could swear a thousand times over on a stack of Bibles, and _still _I'd worry. It was better to just go on and get it over with now. Regardless of the consequences, it would be a relief compared to the dishonesty I'd been dolling out.

"It's just that…" I bit my lip, trying to decide how to form the rest of my answer. Not that I'd been planning one to begin with. Garland had simply caught me off guard. Now I had no choice but to reveal the secret I'd kept hidden from almost the moment our son was born. My husband was right, though. Living in misery was never a wise idea, and both me _and _my happiness meant the world to him. With my strength now renewed, I continued bravely forward with my explanation.

"It's just that I haven't been the _same _since Christopher was born. None of the clothing I brought with me from Richmond fit me the way it once did. I can hardly get any of my blouses to button past my breasts because they're so swollen and sore, and I can't get any of my skirts to clasp closed, unless I'm willing to wear one of those god-awful girdles. I'm sorry to complain so much—I know I'm behaving childishly, maybe even atrociously, but I really did think that after Christopher came, that my body would immediately go back to the way it used to be. To the way it _should _be."

I was about to start crying again, when Garland took my hand and used his other to trail it across my forehead. Bending down, he quieted me with a kiss to my trembling lips and a single word which he whispered in my ear: "Hush."

A tiny hiccup was my only response. My husband smiled down at me, his warm hand having since stilled on my forehead.

"Am I still as pretty as I was the day you married me?" I asked, concern lining my voice.

"No," he said, and my heart seemed to stop for a moment. "You're _prettier. _More beautiful than ever, in fact."

My tears of shame hadn't time to squeeze from my eyes before Garland finished speaking. But those few moments of silence in between had provided a bitter sting. Quickly I blinked away my impending sorrow, so as not to give the tears a chance to escape their cerulean prison.

"There's something about a woman," my husband went on, "that, after she gives birth, makes her very beautiful. Not just attractive, but _beautiful._ Like an accessory that complements the perfect outfit. It isn't the widened hips, or the swollen breasts, though these things too represent feminine beauty." I had no idea where he was going with this, but as always I dangled at the edge of his every word. I felt like a child holding determinedly to the hand of an adult in a large crowd. "It is in knowing you are the creator of the life inside you, a life that is now a part of your own. And those consequences you perceive as imperfections, why, they're your badges of _honor,_ Alicia! Do you not see, my love? That what you are observing each time you look at yourself, is your reward from God for delivering such a beautiful miracle into the world?"

I had never thought of it that way before. Garland's words were so poetic, like a symphony of words that was the crux of our relationship. Hearing him speak with such gusto about something that had once rendered me so self conscious was equivalent to waking from a long nightmare and finding myself surrounded by flowers. I saw now that nothing had changed, that his feelings for me were right where they had always been, where they always would be.

"Never do I want to hear another word about my little mockingbird being ashamed of herself," Garland went on seriously, using the nickname he'd given me the first time I'd sang for him. I had what was far from being a singer's voice, but leave it to Garland Foxworth to prove me and anyone else who agreed with me wrong. "Like your talents, I want you to always take pride in your features too, no matter how much time may alter them. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. And, as your husband, I feel it only equitable that my opinion matter most over that of any other individual's."

He kissed my forehead then, before stretching out beside me on the bed. He pressed his forehead to the side of my head, his nose brushing against my cheek. My abdomen remained fully exposed, vulnerable in the first light I'd allowed to fall across my (nearly) naked figure in weeks. And then, my husband did a rather strange thing. Taking his hand, he laid his palm across my stomach the way he had when I was pregnant. But no longer was I pregnant, and the only indication that I ever had been was in the distinct curve my stomach had taken on.

My eyes drifted to Garland, whose forehead was still pressed to mine. His eyes were closed, and his face had taken on that same sweet look of calm it did whenever he was asleep. The only clue that indicated he was still very much awake was in the way his fingertips played across my belly. It was as if he were the musician, while I was the harp whose strings he so lovingly plucked. Feeling his hands fondle such a susceptible part of me caused every inch of my skin to break out in goosebumps. I squirmed, not from repulsion but from pure _pleasure,_ an action which prompted his eyes to swiftly open.

"It's strange, isn't it," I asked, as the two of us admired the part of my body where our child had grown, "how something so simple can serve such a significant purpose?"

Garland kissed my cheek, and then bent down to do the same to my stomach. I shivered, feeling new goosebumps rise up all over my belly.

Just as he had done during my pregnancy, my husband laid his head upon my stomach. His right hand rested on my shoulder, while the other remained behind my head and hidden beneath my hair. From the way his head was positioned, I was able to make out the barely visible flecks of gray in his flaxen hair. In another year he would be pushing sixty, and still his hair was as full and thick as it had been when he was still a young man. Instinctively I wrapped my arms around him, cuddling him close. I wished we never had to leave the confines of our bed, and instead stay entwined in the comfort of each other's arms forever.


	4. Confessions

I do not own _Garden of Shadows _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

"Alicia," Garland said.

"Yes, my darling?"

His head didn't budge from its resting place, but he answered all the same. "I'd like you to make me a promise. Or rather, I _need _you to promise me something."

My response was brief, honest, and automatic. "Anything."

"Don't abandon me," he said, and I blinked my eyes in shock. His head still in its original position on my stomach, it was impossible for him to witness my reaction. Too astounded for words to be an option, I listened to him go on. "Even if the day comes when I can no longer satisfy you, please continue to give me the benefit of caring for you and Christopher. Grant this old man his final wish by letting him enjoy the company of his family, while he still has the chance."

His voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper, as if he had already begun crying, and his arms tightened around me. Such behavior suggested that he truly _believed_ I was capable of taking off, of leaving him alone and heartbroken with an infant son to raise. But I wasn't. And for the moment all I could do was lie there, stunned and wondering what could have possibly inspired such a paranoid delusion.

The answer came to me quickly, emerging into the light of comprehension from its tucked away place in the back of my mind. For the reason behind Garland's behavior was so simple: He was afraid. Afraid that I would leave him for another—and, perhaps, much younger—man, like his first wife had done. It was explicable that Christopher's birth had resurrected Garland's old sorrows and created new fears. I didn't know much about Corrine Foxworth, other than she had been very beautiful, and that Malcolm had been exceptionally close to her. Garland had spoken to me of Corrine only a few times, and every time he did I could see the light of sorrow reflected in his eyes. As much as I loved him, I couldn't help but be _angry _with the first Mrs. Foxworth for abandoning a man who was as kind and as gentle as Garland. I suspected she was the reason why he always went out of his way to make _me _happy—though I wouldn't love him any less if he didn't have a single penny to his name. I loved him for what and who he was, and as long as we had each other, then that was all that mattered.

"Oh, Garland," I sighed sadly. I combed my slender fingers through his hair as he'd done for me earlier, in an attempt to bring peace to his rattled mind. "Do you truly believe that's _ever_ going to happen?"

His head shifted, and as it did I became aware of the dampness coating my abdomen. _The poor, dear man, _I thought. _He _has _been crying._

"I'm sorry, my love." He raised his head to reveal the most pitiful expression I had ever seen him wear in the fourteen years we'd been acquainted. His eyes were wet, and I could see the discoloration on his pallid cheeks where his tears had dried. "I don't mean to burden you. But you must understand that, although my heart tells me you'd never abandon me, or even consider it, that doesn't stop my head from fabricating tales of irrationality."

"It's because of _her, _isn't it? Corrine." I blurted out the name before I could stop myself. Action subsequent to thought was one of my greatest flaws—always had been. "_She's _the reason you're so distraught, isn't she?"

Garland didn't have to say even one word for me to ascertain that I had hit the nail on the head. I could read it in his eyes and in the way he bit down on his lower lip, as if trying to keep it from trembling. When it came to displaying emotion, my husband was equivalent to an open book.

"Sometimes," he began, and hesitated for a moment. "Sometimes I feel _I'm _the reason she left. I mean, I know she left _because _of me—just not in the way those acquainted with us have chosen to believe."

Extending my hand, I gently brushed a fresh tear that had strayed from his eye and was rolling down his cheek. How sweet and childlike he looked when his emotions got the better of him. "For what reason do _you _think she left?"

"Frankly, I always suspected it had to do with the transformation of her body after Malcolm's birth. Although you'd never know it to look at her, Corrine insisted the differences in her figure were as noticeable as the sloping Virginia hills are from a distance. Before I knew it, she was refusing to let me touch her, afraid that I would ruin what had only become that much more beautiful. She screamed at me, threw things that had the potential of causing injury if I didn't move out of the way quickly enough. It was only then that I realized just how consumed she was with her appearance. I truly felt she was justified in the way she behaved toward me, simply because _I _was the one at fault."

"But you _weren't!" _I insisted. With great resoluteness I seized his hands and pressed them to my bare stomach, so he'd see just how little I resembled his former wife. "You wanted a child, didn't you? And I'll bet she did, too, didn't she? But if a child wasn't enough to make up for what supposed loss Corrine suffered, then perhaps she just wasn't meant to be a mother. I don't mean to appear boorish, darling, but what other motive can there possibly be?"

"I gave her everything and anything she could ever need or want," Garland went on. "Whatever her heart desired, I made sure she didn't go without. Money was never an object. And that room—the one Malcolm forbids anyone but the maids to enter—was my wedding gift to her. Behind that door is a magnificent bed in the shape of a swan, with an eye assembled from one of the rarest rubies in all of Asia. At the foot of it is a second, nearly identical—though much smaller—bed, which Malcolm slept in as an infant. There is an attached bathroom, and all of Corrine's clothing still hangs in an enormous walk-in closet. I _had_ planned to present the room to you as a wedding gift upon our arrival at Foxworth Hall. But when I announced my plans, Malcolm positively exploded."

"It sounds absolutely lovely," I said, "that room. But if giving it to me is going to cause friction between the two of you, then it's hardly worth the effort."

Garland merely chuckled. "Malcolm is stubborn, but he's certainly not impossible. The trick is to catch him when he's in a decent mood. Besides, my love…" He paused to gaze into my eyes, while placing his forefinger beneath my chin. "You're worth every bit of my son's drivel."

Sometimes it was difficult to believe my husband's generosity. He was always giving, giving, giving to everyone around him, but never did he take or expect anything in return. According to him, generosity was not something that came attached with a price tag. It was the _feeling _you got from making others happy that was the real reward.

"You shouldn't say such things," I scolded gently. "Malcolm is your son, after all, and could be strolling past our rooms as we speak."

"If Malcolm is anywhere," Garland replied, "he's in his trophy room, mulling over plans to help benefit the company."

"Oh? What sort of plans?"

"I'm not sure. He refuses to tell me what any of them are."

I was shocked, and even a little bit angry with Malcolm to hear of this. "Why should he refuse to tell you anything? You're just as important to the company as he is. More so, in fact, considering it was yours first."

"And my father's before mine." Garland let out a heavy sigh. "I'm nowhere near the financial genius my son is. He inherited all that from his grandfather. I've never been capable when it comes to business, and attended business school merely to please my parents. If you'd met them, they would have told you how I often struggled to meet the expectations of my instructors."

I thought of the stuffy attic schoolroom, where little Mal received his education from an instructor who all but terrified him. The fact that the instructor's name was Mr. Chillingworth did nothing to stunt Mal's fear, and the poor boy had to be literally _dragged _up the stairs by his mother for every lesson. "Perhaps if you'd been permitted to attend a regular school with other children, then you would have done better."

Garland sighed. "If it hadn't been for an acute case of childhood asthma, then I'm sure I would have. Unfortunately, my parents were terrified of sending me away to school for fear I'd fall ill. Besides, doing so would have only made Jonathan feel lonely."

"Your older brother who suffered from polio."

"Yes. Our parents had our best interests at heart—I don't doubt that. Jonathan wasn't the type to be bothered by anything and knew how to entertain himself, despite being in a wheelchair. He often spent his free time either sitting beneath a tree in the courtyard, or in his bedroom building models. But I was different. For I was the type of child who was easily bored. And so it wasn't often I came across something that both captured and preserved my interest. Which is why I wished every day that I was swinging back and forth in a swing on a playground, instead of skipping stones across a lake in my back yard."

"We will _not _be restricting Christopher to that horrid attic schoolroom," I announced doggedly, "when the time comes for him to begin his education. Though I suppose that sending him to school _would _make Mal and Joel feel excluded."

"That's another thing I'll be sure to mention in my conversation with Malcolm," Garland said. "But let's take it one step at a time, my darling. We have five years yet before we need to start considering our son's future."

"He's a complicated man, isn't he?"

"Malcolm? But of course he is!" For a moment Garland appeared to return to his former, cheerful self. Then, suddenly, all of the exuberance faded from his voice like the light from the sky right before a storm. "Though I suppose that's another thing I can be held accountable for."

"What do you mean?"

"I blamed him." As he spoke, I perceived the guilt in Garland's voice as easily as one can the smell of rain in the air. "Blamed him for his mother forsaking us."

Since coming to Foxworth Hall, there had been a few occasions where Garland had said things suggesting this. But he had spoken in such a buoyant, repartee manner that I thought it was all his idea of a joke. Just his way of testing Malcolm's patience. Perhaps that was all it really was…perhaps it was Garland's attempt at reconciling with Malcolm, after the years of guilt and shame the two had suffered.

"Oh," Garland went on, "never did I come right out and _say_ it was his fault. Never would I even _consider_ doing that. But he could always tell. The way I sent him off to boarding school, and how I never offered to take him along on any of my business trips proved just that. I spent a great many nights alone in what is now my son's trophy room, staring up at the taxidermies on the walls, and wondering how different things would have been had he not been born. Though I never meant to hurt him."

"I'm sure he knows that," I offered comfortingly.

Garland didn't look as though he quite believed this, and yet he smiled anyway. He seemed satisfied by just having someone to understand and so willing to listen to him. "Malcolm is a genius in many other ways, besides that of finance. He is also a genius at knowing what those around him are thinking. Of course, I improved his abilities a hundred times over by getting rid of everything that reminded me of his mother. The only thing I left untouched was the Swan Room, as I'd gone to such extensive efforts to meet Corrine's expectations. Besides, I _had_ hoped that Malcolm would one day marry…or that I would _re_marry—in which case that room would serve its purpose once more."

"Perhaps that room ought to be given to Olivia," I suggested. "After all, she _was _living here long before me. It's only fair that—"

"I've already spoken to Malcolm about it. He says Olivia is perfectly satisfied with her present rooms, and that any modifications would prove gratuitous."

"Are you _certain_ of that, Garland? I know how much I step on Olivia's toes, as well as Malcolm's. The last thing I want to do is to give either of them a reason to be angry with me."

"No one is going to be angry with you, my love." Garland chuckled then, and reached out to tuck a strand of chestnut hair behind my ear. "And you don't step on anyone's toes. How can you when you're already so close to the ground, eh?"

Garland's little joke concerning my small stature was enough to crack a smile from me. But it wasn't until he reached down to tickle my abdomen that he managed to extract any laughter from me. And when I looked up, I saw that the smile I had fallen in love with so many years ago had returned to his face. The tears that had formerly ruled the corners of his cerulean eyes had completely vanished, and been replaced by a glimmering light. A light that shone its brightest during moments like this. It was the light of true love, and like the sun following a raging storm, that light broke through the gray cloud of my sorrow and flooded my world with happiness.

_**~The End~**_


End file.
